


I Didn't Mean It

by Catchclaw



Series: 2.1 [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Destiel - Freeform, Drinking, Episode: s04e17 It's a Terrible Life, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Regrets, Smith/Wesson AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-25
Updated: 2012-05-25
Packaged: 2017-11-06 00:15:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After he and Sam Wesson gank Sandover's ghost, Dean retreats to his apartment to face a few old spirits of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

After, on his way home, Dean bought beer. Stopped at the 7-11 and grabbed the first two six-packs in the case. Dropped them on the counter, not looking, not caring what brand they were. It didn't matter.

He wouldn't be tasting it, anyway.

He made in the front door of his apartment before his face crumpled, before he let himself feel that punch in the gut.

Sam had said: "What if we think this is our life--but it's not?"

Bullshit. What else was there? Like smoking a ghost was "real." Like that had ever happened before.

He didn't bother to turn on the lights, just stumbled into the living room and reached into the liquor cabinet, fumbling, his fingers catching cocktail glasses and napkins and those little toothpicks Cas had insisted on buying even though no one ever used them.

He caught the cut-glass bottle in his hand, finally. The one Cas'd brought home the first time Jo had visited them. The first time she'd come to see him in Columbus.

God, he missed her.

He yanked the bottle out, knocking over a glass and sending the toothpicks spilling, spinning out over the floor.

He didn't care. It didn't matter.

He pulled the stopper and sniffed, the bourbon shooting up into his skull and reclining, stretching out in his sinuses, making his eyes water.

Yeah, that's what it was. The bourbon.

The bottle was almost empty, like he'd thought, so he hoisted it up and opened his mouth and let it roll, let it slide down the neck and into his mouth and rake its nails down the inside of his throat.

Fuck. Now he really was crying.

Sam had shouted: "This isn't who we're supposed to be! We're supposed to be something else!"

And in Dean's head, he'd let his father answer: "Everybody thinks that."

And everybody's wrong.

Because this? This is all that there is: four walls or three, an office or a cube, a phone and a headset and a computer. Endless meetings, endless deadlines, lunch at your desk or with one of the partners, spreadsheets and weekly reports and memos. Years of going home alone, of sleeping in an empty bed, the one where you wake up with your hand stretched out like he's still there, like he'll feel your fingers in his hair, like you'll see him winking back at you when you open your eyes.

There isn't anything else. This is all there is.

He plunked the bottle, still heavy, even empty, on the coffee table and reached for a beer, clawing at the tab. It fell off in his hand and he collapsed onto the couch, tipping the can back over his teeth.

It was like deja vu, that conversation with Sam, both of them still high on adrenaline, still buzzing from moving together like that, from working as a team without thinking, without talking. Almost like instinct.

But then Sam had to ruin it by channeling Cas, by rattling off all that bullshit about another life, another way of living, damn him.

The can ran dry and he snagged another. Open, tip, swallow.

He couldn't taste a damn thing.

Was aiming for not feeling.

Outside, the lights of the city were few and far between, some blinking out even as he watched. It felt like the rest of the world was asleep. Like he was alone.

He made a noise that sounded like a sob. Slapped his hand over his mouth and closed his eyes. Ignored the tears between his fingers.

There was no reason for this. No excuse. None.

Maybe he was in shock. Maybe all of that weird supernatural crap was just catching up with him now.

Sure. That's why it was Sam's face sketched behind his eyelids. Cas' hands he could feel on his cheeks.

He opened his eyes and watched the lights bounce around the bottle, watched them sketch its shadow in the dark.

Remembered the first time he'd seen it sitting there.

Remembered watching Cas set it on the coffee table and step back, admiring the thing like he'd made it himself.

"Come on," he'd said. "It's gorgeous. She'll think it's gorgeous, Dean."

"Yeah," Dean had said, sarcastic. "Clearly, she'll think I have class."

"Bullshit," Cas shot back. "She'll know _I_ have class. There's no way in hell you'd buy something like this."

Dean threw up his hands. "Exactly my point!"

Cas sighed, shook his head. "God, can't you accept that I want to make a good impression on your sister? That it's important to me?"

Dean stared at him.

"It is?" he said.

Cas rolled his eyes. "You are a dumb fuck sometimes, Dean."

"Shut up," Dean said, his face burning. Feeling a weird rush of something in his gut: love and fear and gratefulness, maybe.

Cas saw it. Cas always saw it, whatever he was feeling, which was fucking annoying sometimes and freaking great others. Meant he didn't have to say it.

Cas took a step closer, reached for his arm.

"Honey, you love her. I love you. I want her to like me. Why is that so hard to understand?"

"It's not," Dean mumbled. "It's not. I just--thanks."

Cas squeezed his arm. Kissed his palm.

"I love you," he said again, his lips over Dean's wrist. "Deal with it already."

And of course, Jo had loved the bottle. Loved Cas.

Had loved Cas offering her a drink practically first thing, almost as soon as she got through the door.

"You can't drink," Dean said, his voice rising. "You're not drinking."

Cas pushed the glass into Jo's hand. "Here you go, little sister."

"Cas!" Dean shouted. "She's not old enough to drink!"

"Ignore him," Cas said, grinning. "You are, and you can, sweetheart."

"Jo!" Dean barked. Command voice.

She blinked into his face, all innocence, and he exhaled like an idiot.

Then she winked and tossed the bourbon back in one long swallow.

"That's my girl!" Cas cackled. He clapped her on the back. Almost managed to hide her coughing.

Dean glared.

"You're lucky I love you, asshole," he growled. "Else I'd call the cops on you for corrupting a minor."

"I'm not a minor!" Jo choked, hacking into Cas' shoulder.

Cas laughed. "'Cause you didn't drink at her age, right? You were a fucking choir boy." His lips twitched. "Or fucking a choir boy, maybe."

"Cas!" Dean squeaked, blushing.

Jo snorted and hid her face in Cas' collar, her ponytail swinging with laughter.

"It was a deacon and you know it," Dean managed, swinging for a salvage.

Cas' eyes lit up and he howled, wrapped his arms around Jo, who was choking and howling all at once. They started swaying around the living room, giggling like monkeys, tipping into the furniture.

Dean stood there with a big stupid grin, watching them, two people loved, two people he'd do all kinds of stupid things for. Watching them Godzilla around the room and knock shit off the shelves, he was happier than he'd been--well. For a long time.

Cas looked up, looked over, and Dean knew that happy was written all over his face.

Cas stopped spinning, brought Jo to a halt, her ponytail collapsed over her face. Kissed the top of her head and dumped her in the armchair, still snickering, still grinning over at Dean.

"So," Cas said, slipping over, snaking his arms around Dean's waist. "You gonna babysit us all night, or are you gonna get your ass in the kitchen and cook?"

"Jesus! Do you ever stop thinking about food?" Dean bitched, playing his part, smiling down into Cas' face.

Cas pushed his head up. "Oh honey," he whispered. "You know I do." He flicked out his tongue, caught Dean's lip, and it kind of took everything Dean had not to groan, not to grab Cas' head and kiss him into the floor, because, god, his eyes were glittering like they did in bed, like they did when Dean knocked him back into the pillows and crawled up over him, his hands diving into Cas'--

Jo cleared her throat."Ahem. Ahem, unattended 'minor' over here, guys. Starting to feel a little corrupted. And hungry."

"See!" Cas said, shoving Dean away, nudging him towards the kitchen. "The minor is hungry. You don't want to be charged with child cruelty, right?"

"I'm not a child!" Jo shouted.

"Whatever," Cas said. "C'mon, Dean. Get in there."

Dean let himself be pushed. Maybe even leaned back into Cas' hands, a little.

"Fine," he said, sliding around the corner. "But you're doing the dishes."

"Ok ok," Cas huffed. "Less talking. More cooking."

"Now," Dean heard him say to Jo. "For you? More drinking. More talking."

**

After dinner, they sat around the table, Dean sipping coffee like a judge, Cas nursing the last of the red, Jo drinking something out of a tumbler that looked way too boozy for Dean's taste, but damn, it was good to see her smiling, happy and relaxed and ok, lit up like a Christmas tree. But hell. She wasn't driving.

She was trying to tell them about her semester, about some horrible economics class she was struggling with, but her words kept coming out in twisted chunks that didn't make a hell of a lot of sense. But he was getting the gist. Was just enjoying hearing her talk.

"So," she sighed finally, tipping her chair back, "my stupid TA wouldn't let me turn in the last homework. The homework that I? Don't know. Some kind of Keynesian bullshit or. Whatever. He. Is such a dick." She scowled, and Dean saw her as a kid, when she'd tried to ride his bike and been super pissed when she figured out it was too tall for her to even get onto, much less take around the block.

He kinda felt sorry for the TA.

"Hmm," he heard Cas say. "Do you know how I passed econ?"

"No!" Dean shouted, watching Cas' smile sharpen. "Don't tell her that story!"

"Why not?" Cas purred. "You love that one."

Jo looked back and forth between them.

"Why?" she said, her eyes wide. "Dean. Why? Do you love it?"

Dean scowled.

Cas laughed. Took pity on him.

"Let's just say," he said, slinking back in his chair, "that my econ TA knew a little something about supply and demand." He waggled his eyebrows and Jo gasped, delighted.

Dean rolled his eyes. "God, you suck at innuendo, Cas."

"No he doesn't!" Jo said, leaning towards him. "Oh, Cas. You didn't."

Cas stretched like a cat. Preening.

"Oh, I did, sweetheart. Not just because he was my TA, mind you. But it was a fine incentive to--" he swung his hand in the air, searching. "To--speed things along, if you will." He gave a sleek little smile. "Mmm. But it was worth it. Even if I did only get a B+."

Dean choked on his coffee.

"A B+?! What the hell did you do wrong?"

Cas shook his head, mournful. "Haven't you ever heard the expression, always leave them wanting more?"

"Yeah."

"Well," Cas said. "So had my TA."

Dean caught his head in his hand and laughed so hard his eyes started watering, so hard that Cas' face got a little hazy across the table.

"So," Cas said breezily. "Let that be a lesson to you, little sister. Don't give it up to a TA. Until you've agreed on a price."

"You are the worst parent _ever_ ," Jo managed through a storm of giggles.

"Damn right," Cas said. "And don't you forget it."

Jo's laughter caught in her throat and Dean looked up, saw her eyelids fluttering, her body swaying down into the table top. Her head threatening to go through it.

"Ok, sunshine," he said, standing. "Time for you to go to bed."

"See?" Cas said. "He's made to be the bad cop."

Dean smacked him.

"C'mon," he said, lifting Jo out of her chair, away from the table. "Seriously. You are freaking exhausted." He gave Cas the eye. "And a little drunk."

"'M not drunk, Dean," she slurred, turning her face into his shirt like she had when she was little, when he'd carried her up the stairs. Pulled up the covers and read her _Goosebumps_ until she was snoring. Maybe a little after.

"Uh huh," Dean said, tugging her towards the bedroom. "Keep telling yourself that, champ."

They made it through the door and she opened her eyes. Leaned back and grinned into his face.

"I can make it from here," she said.

"Ok," Dean said, pushing a hand through her hair. Patting her on the head. "You know where everything is."

She squeezed him and slid out of his arms. Stuttering for the bathroom.

"Oh yeah," she said, waggling her eyebrows at him. "Cas told me where to find _everything_."

She slammed the bathroom door, snickering.

Dean turned on his heel and stomped back to the kitchen. Parked himself behind the sink, behind Cas, and glared down, watched Cas' hands move through hot water and dirty dishes.

"Are you trying to give me a heart attack?" Dean asked, exasperated. "Or just humiliate me?"

Cas turned, squinting. "What are you talking about?"

"Jo. She said you told her. Where to find. _Everything_."

Cas stared at him for a second. Then broke out into a glorious grin. Triumphant.

"I did no such thing," he said sweetly. "I think you just got played, big brother."

Dean blinked.

Then:

"Goddamn it!" he swore, flinging his arms in the air.

Cas laughed and pushed his back into Dean's chest. Leaned in until Dean kind of had no choice but to hold him. To tuck his arms around Cas' waist, drop his face into his hair.

"She's a good kid," Cas said after a minute.

"Yeah," Dean sighed. "I know. I know she is."

"You had a lot to do with that, you know."

"Maybe."

Cas turned, burning cobalt into Dean's eyes.

" _Definitely_. You think your dad put that cool in there? That confidence? That incredible sense of humor? I sure as hell don't."

Dean kissed his forehead. Let his lips stay there.

"You're just saying that because she laughs at your jokes."

"Did I mention that she has great taste, too?" Cas murmured, turning his mouth into Dean's chin.

Dean snorted.

"Uh huh," he said.

"Now," Cas breathed. "Are you gonna let me finish the dishes so I can go home? Or are you gonna keep me chained to the sink all night?"

Dean tilted his head, pulled it back. "Tempting," he said. "But no."He brushed his hand over Cas' face. Reveled in the rumble he got in return. "Go home. I'll finish this. I'm--" he hesitated. "I'm sorry you can't stay, but there isn't room on the couch for--"

"Shut up," Cas said. "Please. I can live without you for one night, Dean Smith."

Dean leaned down, caught Cas' lip in his teeth. Bit down just enough.

"I'm not taking that as a challenge," he whispered. "So stop trying."

"Damn. And I thought I was so clever," Cas hummed, pushing his mouth up, shoving them into a kiss.

And he'd left the bottle there, that night, this weirdly fancy thing that Dean never would've bought, never picked out for himself. That he never took out, except when Cas was there, except when Cas wanted to make a bourbon and ginger that was, admittedly, ginger only in passing.

And when Cas had left for good, he'd left the bottle behind.

Hell, he'd left almost everything behind, like he wanted to be haunting Dean, or something.

Like he was sure he'd be coming back.

**

And finally, finally, Dean let it come, let the noise fall out of his throat and the tears slide down his face, into his mouth. He kicked them back with a beer and let himself fall in to the black outside, the black inside, the isolation he'd been so fucking sure that he wanted. That he needed.

No Jo.

No Cas.

And now, after tonight?

No Sam.

He dropped the can, heard the beer slosh over the floor.

He didn't care. It didn't matter.

Because he'd done it again. Looked opportunity right in the face and said: No. Seen love in two sets of eyes, brown and blue, and turned his back.

He was.

He was everything he'd always feared, everything his father had always said.

He was a coward.

And just thinking it, hearing that word knock around inside his head, was a knife in his side, one that sent a shot of pain through his ribs and up his back, one that cut deep into his mouth. Made it hard for him to breathe.

For the first time in a year, he grieved.

For Jo. For her voice on the other end of the line. For her faith in him: once a constant, now the kind of absence that burned every time she didn't call. Every birthday. Every holiday. Every time Duke won.

For what he'd had with Cas. Somebody who'd loved him completely, for who he was. In spite of it, sometimes.

For himself. For the impersonal android he'd let himself become, without Cas to kick him in the ass and kiss him on the mouth and order him not to be such a dick.

And for Sam. For whatever crazy life they might have had together, chasing ghosts and vampires or whatever.

A life outside of four walls.

He closed his eyes and gave himself over it, all that grief. Let himself get lost in it, and it was so loud, so overwhelming and awful that he didn't hear the key turn in the lock.

Didn't hear the door open.

Didn't hear a damn thing, in fact, until he felt warm fingers on his back, his neck.

Until he heard somebody say:

"Dean?"


	2. Chapter 2

"Dean?" the hands said again, and Dean raised his head in the dark and saw Sam, felt Sam slide in beside him on the couch.

"You left your keys in the door," Sam said, for some reason, his fingers skating over Dean's face, reaching into his hair. "So I came in."

He cupped Dean's jaw and leaned over, his mouth whispering over Dean's skin.

"What's wrong?" he asked, and his voice was so gentle, so sweet and fucking caring that it pissed Dean off, swung him from sad to fucking furious and he hissed, yanked himself away, pushed Sam away, jerked himself off the couch.

"Fuck you," he managed, his voice drowning, his body shaking. "Didn't ask you to come here."

"No, you didn't," Sam said, still so goddamn reasonable it made Dean want to scream. "I came to apologize.”

Dean took a step back, scowling. Slammed into the wall, his limbs going sideways in the dark.

"For what?" he growled.

Sam sighed, and Dean saw his shadow slide around the couch.

“I shouldn’t have pushed you,” Sam said. “You didn’t want to hear any of that crap, earlier. I knew it. But I didn’t care.” He took a step closer and Dean heard his breath hitch. “I wanted to say it. Hell, I needed to hear it. And I shouldn’t have. Wasn't fair to you.”

Dean’s brain flung itself against his head, battered itself into his skull, trying to understand what Sam was saying, what he’d said, but it was too full of booze and self-pity and fury to work right, so he lashed out, banged his fist into the wall. Heard something shatter and fall.

"God!" he barked. "Stop it! Stop being nice to me, damn it! Just--just fuck off! Get out of here!"

There was a pause. A long heavy silence between them. The lights of the city winking outside, overhead.

Then Sam laughed. Low. Almost cruel.

“No,” he said. Certain.

Dean opened his mouth to protest but then Sam was right in his damn face, his hands pinning Dean’s shoulders to the wall. Not moving.

“You think you can get rid of me that easy?” he asked.

“Um,” Dean said.

Sam’s head slid down and Dean tipped his back, twisted, tried to get his mouth out of the way. Failed.

“You can’t chase me away,” Sam said into Dean’s cheek, his lips moving, Dean’s eyes fluttering under his breath. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Dean let his body relax, let himself go slack. Turned his head towards Sam’s mouth.

Sam made a little pleased sound and kissed him, his fingers loosening, his grip slipping.

And Dean sprang, banged his forehead into Sam’s nose and bolted, flinging himself towards the kitchen.

He heard Sam cursing and his head screamed, made him stumble, his back catching the island, his arms flailing, fury pushed away by pain and fear and something else, something he wanted to ignore. A thrill in his gut that was either nausea or lust. Neither of which he was ready for.

He wavered again, his fingers clutching, skating over the marble. His knees stopped cooperating, stopped communicating with his brain, and he fell, pitched over and hit the floor with a bang.

He heard Sam by his head, suddenly. Felt him looming overhead, panting.

Long fingers digging into and under his arms. Yanking him up.

“Look,” Sam hissed, and Dean could smell the blood on his face. “You can be an ass all you want, man. But I’m. Not. Leaving. Okay?”

Dean tried to be still. So still.

“But I want you to,” he said, his voice flat and small.

Unconvincing as hell.

“No,” Sam said through his teeth. “No you don’t.”

He stepped in, hands still locked around Dean's arms, and dove right into his mouth. Swallowed him whole.

Dean moaned. He didn’t want to. Fuck, everything hurt, he couldn’t see straight, and part of him was still pissed. But the rest of him, every part of him that Sam could touch, was touching, was fucking devouring, it was occupied, possessed by somebody other than him and there wasn’t a damn thing he wanted to do about it.

Sam’s blood slid over his lips and down, curved its way into Dean’s mouth, rusty and hot, and Sam shoved it back, draped it over Dean’s teeth with his tongue. He groaned, shifted his hips, rubbed his cock over Dean’s thigh.

Everything went to stars inside Dean’s head and he. Had a decision to make.

Fight?

Flight?

Or surrender?

And maybe it was the booze. Or the exhaustion. Or the grief.

He didn't care which it was, then. Just pushed himself into Sam’s arms, his mouth.

Gave in.

Sam lifted his head, a little, and squeezed him tighter, his cock digging into Dean's body. Insistent.

“Let me,” he whispered. “Let me.”

“Okay,” Dean said. "Okay."

He let himself be half-dragged, half-carried into the bedroom, Sam swinging and unsteady on his feet, tripping over himself and almost banging Dean's head into the doorframe.

But he got them to the bed, finally, dumped Dean across the covers and fell over his body, started to kiss him slow and sure. Patient.

He worked his tongue in, tying Dean's lips into knots, his hands stroking, moving down Dean's arms, fingers pressing into his flesh.

Dean shifted, tried to push himself against Sam's cock, his hips straining to reach what he knew was there, but Sam's fingers closed, snapped shut around his wrists and pulled. Anchored Dean's hands over his head, pinned them to the headboard.

"Stop it," Sam said into his mouth. "Be still, damn it!"

Dean bucked, a wail shooting out of his throat before he could stop it.

"Be still," Sam said again, softer, belying the hold. "Let me. You said I could."

"Okay," Dean said, his voice high and fast. "Okay okay, Sam. Okay. Just--" Everything was fuzzy in his head again, lights shooting by and mixing with the electricity that Sam was pushing through him. "Sam. Sam, just--"

"Shhh," Sam said, ducking his head down, nipping at Dean's jaw. "Shhh."

"I want," Dean panted, "I want, Sam, want you to--"

"I know," Sam whispered in his ear. "I know."

He started thrusting, shoving himself between Dean’s legs, against his cock, which was slowly remembering what to do, shaking off the booze and lumbering back to life. Sam felt it, felt him, and groaned, a thunderclap breaking out his chest.

Dean kicked his hips up, encouraging, gasping, because god, did it feel good.

Did Sam feel good.

Make him feel--

"So good," he moaned. "So fucking good, Sam--"

"Yeah," Sam said. "Yeah, Dean."

He let go of Dean's hands and slipped down, got his hands on Dean's belt and opened him, undressed him like he was fine china, some fragile thing that might shatter.

And it was a close thing, that.

Dean tried to get his tie off, his shirt open, but then Sam touched him, ran his fingers over his cock and Dean's motor skills checked out, his hands collapsing under the weight of Sam's fingers as they slid over the head, brushing down the sides, resting at the base of his cock.

Resting.

Then moving up again. Slowly. So fucking slowly. Patient.

He stuttered, his mouth moving, his voice shuddering in the dark.

He felt Sam's other hand catch his hip, try to hold him steady as long fingers caressed him, moved over his shaft. The head. Back down to his body, his curls. And up again. And back.

He started to waver, his shoulders shaking, his hands stretching, searching for Sam. He wanted to touch him. Had to touch him, because, god, the noises coming out of Sam's mouth were making his cock ache and his heart shiver. His name mixed with gasps and growls and this rumble that shot straight down through his fingers, grounded itself in Dean's body.

"Fuck," Dean cried. "Fuck, Sam. Suck me. Please! Suck my cock, baby, please. Please."

Sam's hand fell away, made way for his mouth, and Dean screamed, that long tongue, those soft lips, that low suck too much. Too much.

He reached down, tried to grab Sam's head, to slow him down, but Sam was relentless, determined. All that patience, gone.

He worked Dean faster, took him deeper, moaned something lovely and dark into his cock. It was too much too much for Dean to hold off but his hips still wanted more, tried to fuck up into Sam's mouth, but it was too late, he was too close, and he disintegrated.

Stopped being himself for a moment.

And then there was an earthquake under his head.

His face started twitching, his ears ringing, and god. Oh god.

He woke up.

Sat up, pulling the phone away from his face, sweeping off the alarm. Dropping it back on the couch.

He blinked in the early morning sun, still half-expecting to see Sam. To hear him in the shower or something.

But no. It was just him.

Alone and stiff, his body bent and unhappy, beer cans rattling around his feet, his face aching where the phone had bitten in.

He saw Sam's face, sad and shaggy. Certain. So fucking certain. "I got this feeling in my gut," he'd said. "And I know, I know that deep down, you gotta feel it too."

And Dean had said: No.

 _I didn't mean it_ , he thought. _Sam. I didn't mean it, what I said last night, after_. 

_You were right. I was wrong. We should_ \--

 _I could_ \--

He got up, unsteady as hell. Hung over as fuck.

But determined.

Different

He was ready.

Ready to say yes.

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed with love from The Belle Brigade’s kick-ass song of the same name.


End file.
